


& sit with me here by the firelight

by talkwordytome



Series: soft lesbean ratched sickfics [6]
Category: Ratched (TV)
Genre: Caretaker Gwendolyn, Cuddling & Snuggling, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Mildred Ratched Needs a Hug, Mildred is Bad at Feelings, Sick Mildred, Sickfic, and Gwen is always there to help, but she's learning, losing voice, showering together, soft lesbians, the teeniest bit of making out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:53:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27716377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/talkwordytome/pseuds/talkwordytome
Summary: Gwendolyn loves autumn. She loves the warm drinks, the cool weather, the built in excuse to stay home and cuddle Mildred as they read next to the fire. She loves the cozy sweaters and making rich, flavorful soups for dinner;rib-sticking, her mother would always say. She even loves the sun setting earlier and earlier each evening; to her, the darkness is a comfort, as though she’s being tucked into bed by enormous, gentle hands.in which Gwendolyn loves autumn, but Mildred's rather delicate constitution isn't quite sure what to make of it.
Relationships: Gwendolyn Briggs/Mildred Ratched
Series: soft lesbean ratched sickfics [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2024666
Comments: 36
Kudos: 95





	& sit with me here by the firelight

**Author's Note:**

> title comes from "As We Go Along" by The Monkees!
> 
> how are we doing, friends? staying warm and cozy? anyone doing anything fun for the Weird Pandemic Version of Thanksgiving tomorrow?
> 
> I hope everyone is continuing to enjoy all the sickfic; it's such a weird time right now, and it's v much my comfort genre. Also, can you imagine anyone cuter with the sniffles than Sarah Paulson?? because I simply cannot.

Fall comes on suddenly as a fever that year, all in beautiful, violent shades of red and orange and yellow. Delicate fractal patterns of ice creep onto windows overnight, only to be later melted by the bright warmth of the afternoon sun. The air always seems to smell of cinnamon and cardamom, woodsmoke, and, faintly, the threat of snow.

Gwendolyn loves autumn. She loves the warm drinks, the cool weather, the built in excuse to stay home and cuddle Mildred as they read next to the fire. She loves the cozy sweaters and making rich, flavorful soups for dinner; _rib-sticking_ , her mother would always say. She even loves the sun setting earlier and earlier each evening; to her, the darkness is a comfort, as though she’s being tucked into bed by enormous, gentle hands.

Mildred knows all this. She does. And she wants nothing more than to love autumn as Gwendolyn does, because her dearest held wish in life is that Gwendolyn be dizzyingly, deliriously happy. She does her best to love it--she really, really does--but her attempts are complicated by the simple fact that autumn has never agreed with her constitution. She’s never known for certain why--she didn’t go to the doctor enough as a child for that--though she has a feeling that it’s something to do with the unfortunate confluence of dropping temperatures and the increased presence of ragweed. 

Anyway, all of this is to say that Mildred knows she shouldn’t be surprised when she wakes two days before Halloween acutely in the throes of her annual fall head cold, and she’s not surprised, exactly, but she cannot deny that it is still deeply unpleasant.

Mildred, for once, is up before Gwendolyn. She is a morning person by necessity--it is, after all, a prerequisite for early hospital shifts--though never by choice. This particular morning, though, it’s not work obligations that rouse her but the miserable, heavy congestion in her head. Her eyes water when she opens them. The pale, weak light streaming in through the gap in the bedroom curtains triggers a sneeze, which hurts her already sore throat. 

Mildred tries to sit up, attempts to prop herself up on her elbows and speak, but she can’t. The only sound she can produce is a raspy, pained croak. She clears her throat and tries again. This time, she manages some facsimile of, “ _Gwendolyn_ ,” though her voice breaks between the second and third syllables.

“Oh dear,” Gwendolyn murmurs, stirring, “is it that time of year already?”

Mildred sneezes again, and then twice more for good measure. Gwendolyn opens her bedside table drawer and retrieves a handkerchief, which she hands to Mildred. Mildred dabs daintily at her nose because, in spite of being reassured endlessly to the contrary, Mildred cannot relieve herself of the certainty that thoroughly blowing her nose in front of anyone else is indelicate.

“I don’t…feel…well,” Mildred says once her nose has been addressed, the words a strangled hiss.

Gwendolyn shushes her. “Don’t talk, darling,” she says, “it hurts just listening to you. This sounds like it might be tonsillitis again, poor thing.” 

There’s an edge of bitterness to the way she says _tonsillitis_ , because Mildred’s tonsils _are_ a problem, a consistent one, and one that should’ve been dealt with when Mildred was a child. There’s resentment there, directed at all the adults who didn’t protect smaller Mildred, who didn’t do absolutely everything they could to ensure that she got the care and attention she deserved.

She’s already climbing out of bed and putting on her slippers. She gets her flannel robe and throws it on. She crosses to Mildred’s side and gestures for her to sit up higher. “Here,” she says, grabbing an armful of pillows, “let’s get you nice and propped up, okay, sweetness? That way this won’t go into your chest, hmm?”

Mildred allows herself to be moved and adjusted. She hates to admit it, but it’s rather nice, being babied. She’s never, not once, known anyone who loves caring for her the way Gwendolyn does. It’s overwhelming on good days, and frightening on bad. No matter how hard she tries, she can’t quite seem to disabuse herself of the conviction that anything in her life as beautiful as Gwendolyn--as perfect, as kind, as luminous as Gwendolyn--is going to be snatched from her the moment she blinks. The fairytale witch promising sweets and magic and beautiful clothes--crooking her finger, _come along, little girl_ \--until she realizes, too late, that it’s nothing more than a trap.

Gwendolyn smooths out the blankets and makes a satisfied little sound, pleased with her handiwork. She kisses Mildred’s temple. “What can I get you, sweetheart?” she asks. “What would make you feel better?”

Mildred makes her eyes as wide as they can go, which is perhaps a bit dramatic but she knows Gwendolyn doesn’t mind. “Ice cream?” she whispers. “Vanilla?”

Gwendolyn pushes a messy lock of hair back from Mildred’s forehead. “You can have all the ice cream you want,” she says. “I’ll be back. You rest. If you need anything…” she trails off, thinking. “I wish we had a bell you could ring.”

Mildred rolls her eyes. “Don’t…be absurd,” she says.

Gwendolyn raises her left eyebrow. “You’re on _strict_ vocal rest,” she says, then snaps her fingers. “I know! If you need anything, clap. I’ll be back upstairs quick as a flash.”

“Clap?” Mildred repeats dryly.

“Yes,” Gwendolyn says, “clap.” As she walks out of the room, she calls over her shoulder, “If I see you out of this bed, if your precious little feet so much as _touch_ the floor, I will be _very_ cross.”

Mildred blushes.

As Gwendolyn prepares a tray for the both of them, Mildred tries to sit up enough to be an acceptable recipient of breakfast in bed. Instead, she finds herself becoming increasingly aware of all the ways in which her body has decided to betray her. Her neck and back ache, and her skin feels overheated but she shivers when the blankets slip down from her shoulders. Her throat is raw and scratchy, a painful burn spreading down into her lungs. Even breathing seems to hurt. Her nose, too, is irritated and stuffy, and her head feels light and swollen as a balloon.

When Gwendolyn returns with the tray, she’s also obtained a small notebook and a pencil. Mildred makes a questioning face. “So you don’t have to talk,” Gwendolyn explains. “You can write anything you need to say in here, and then show it to me.” She hands Mildred a mug of tea.

Mildred directs a pleading glance at the bowl of vanilla ice cream. Gwendolyn smiles. “Tea first,” she says, gently bossing. “It’ll help your throat, and it has lemon to help you fight off this nasty virus.”

Mildred pouts. She sets the mug on her bedside table. She opens her notepad to the first page and writes, _Not fair_. She holds it up so Gwendolyn can see, and Gwendolyn laughs. Mildred’s bottom lip goes out even further. She flips to the next blank page. _Please_? 

Gwendolyn shakes her head. The corners of her mouth twitch. She sits next to Mildred on the bed and wraps an arm around her waist. “Do you want anything in your tea besides lemon?” she asks. “Honey? Sugar? I brought up both.”

 _I want to languish_ , Mildred writes. She crosses her arms and flops back against her pillows. She sets her notebook to the side and sneezes, twice, into the arm of Gwendolyn’s robe. Mildred blushes, mortified, but Gwendolyn just makes sympathetic sounds and pets her hair. _I’m so sorry_ , Mildred writes, once she’s recovered.

“You don’t need to be,” Gwendolyn says sweetly. “You can’t help it that you’re sick.”

Mildred’s brow furrows. Gwendolyn kisses the wrinkles until they disappear, and then cups Mildred’s cheek in her hand. “You’re adorable,” Gwendolyn says fondly, and Mildred’s blush deepens. 

Gwendolyn stands and stretches. “Have a few more sips of tea,” she instructs, “and then you can eat your ice cream. I need to shower and dress, but I’ll be back to check on you soon, okay?”

Mildred grabs Gwendolyn’s wrist to stop her from leaving. _What about work?_ Mildred writes, her heart thrumming anxiously. She knows it’s silly; she’s an adult, not to mention a nurse, and perfectly capable of looking after herself while Gwendolyn is at her office for a few hours. But the thought of feeling poorly without Gwendolyn to hold her hand or play with her hair is more than Mildred is able to bear.

“Oh, I’m working from here today,” Gwendolyn says. “I called when I was downstairs. I’m just drafting a few speech points, which I can do anywhere. And I’d rather be here so I can look after you.”

Mildred isn’t completely sure what causes it. It might be because her head is swimming, or perhaps she has a fever, or maybe she’s just well and truly exhausted. But the matter of fact kindness of Gwendolyn’s explanation, how plainly and clearly she states her love for Mildred, does something to Mildred. Before she’s even begun to process what emotion she’s feeling, she’s burst into noisy, messy tears.

“Mildred!” Gwendolyn says. She sounds alarmed. She sits back on the bed; Mildred can feel the mattress shift with her added weight. Mildred tries to wave her off, though her attempts are unsuccessful. “Honey, why are you crying?”

“I…don’t… _know_ ,” Mildred sobs. 

Gwendolyn pulls Mildred into her arms and rocks back and forth for a few minutes. She doesn’t ask anymore questions, and Mildred is eternally grateful. She doesn’t think she could answer them. In the years she and Gwendolyn have been together, she’s discovered that sometimes tears simply come, unbidden, and she has to feel what it is she’s feeling until she doesn’t anymore. Gwendolyn has told her that not every emotion needs a name or a reason. Mildred, slowly but surely, is learning to believe her.

She cries herself out after about twenty minutes. She tries to fight a yawn, but it sneaks up on her anyway. Gwendolyn runs her fingers over Mildred’s eyelids. “You need rest,” she murmurs. “Close your eyes for me? Please?”

They’re already closed, though, and she wouldn’t be able to keep them open even if she tried. The pillowcase is cool on her cheek, and the quiet sounds of Gwendolyn getting ready are as comforting as any lullaby. She’s sound asleep in minutes.

When she wakes, it’s just past 12:30. Mildred spends the afternoon convalescing in bed, sitting primly in its center with all the imperious authority of a queen. Gwendolyn changes back into her pajamas not long after Mildred’s nap. She works on the speech points sitting next to Mildred, though she ends up doing considerably more cuddling than writing. She finds that she doesn’t really care. 

Lunch is chicken soup and Wonder Bread grilled cheese sandwiches with the crusts cut off, per Mildred’s instructions. A pitiful, croaky request for more sore throat ice cream is hastily granted; Gwendolyn makes them a sundae to share, heavy on the hot fudge. Gwendolyn scratches Mildred’s back as she reads aloud from _Anne of Green Gables_. It’s a childhood favorite, one Mildred never got to read, and Gwendolyn is more than happy to share these little pieces of her own history with the person she loves the most. 

After dinner, Mildred feels well enough that she wants to shower. “I’ll allow it,” Gwendolyn says, more than a little mischievous, “but only if I can do it with you. We don’t want you getting dizzy and fainting, do we?”

Mildred looks at Gwendolyn and bats her long eyelashes, the very picture of angelic innocence. “Well,” she says, her voice still a bit raspy but much improved after endless mugs of tea and rest, “what am I supposed to do if it’s _you_ making me dizzy?” 

Gwendolyn’s cheeks turn a decidedly bewitching shade of pink.

The shower is warm, and Mildred sighs happily when she feels the steam begin to clear out her chest and head. “Does that feel nice?” Gwendolyn asks, then kisses Mildred directly on her pulse point.

Mildred’s eyes flutter closed and she moans without meaning to. “This feels nicer,” she breathes.

“Does it really?” Gwendolyn hums. She bites down ever so carefully, barely hard enough to leave a mark. Mildred’s knees go weak. “How about this, hmm?”

Mildred nods hurriedly. She tips her head back and extends her neck. Gwendolyn moves down towards Mildred’s clavicles, and Mildred moans again, louder this time. 

“Are you my good girl?” Gwendolyn whispers.

“Yes,” Mildred whimpers. But then she sneezes, and though she tries to muffle it, Gwen still hears. She snaps backwards, and Mildred whines.

“Time to get out, I think,” Gwendolyn says, a bit wryly, “before you catch a chill.”

Mildred shakes her head. “No, no, I’m fine--I--” she tries, but then she interrupts herself with a few more sneezes.

Gwendolyn kisses Mildred, slow and languid, once she’s done. “There will be plenty of time for all that once you’re feeling better,” she says. “Promise.”

Mildred pouts, but acquiesces all the same. She _is_ tired, even if she’d rather not admit it, and she’s not sure how much she’d enjoy any sort of _physical exertion_ when she can’t breathe through her nose. And what a lovely thought it is, the promise of later, of time. How lovely to know that time is something they’ve been given.

Instead, they curl up in bed together. Mildred tucks herself beneath Gwendolyn’s chin and times her own breathing to the rise and fall of Gwendolyn’s chest. Her eyes close. “Thank you,” she says, “for today.”

Soft laughter rumbles through Gwendolyn. “What do you mean, silly girl?” she asks.

Mildred opens a single eye. “For taking care of me,” she says shyly. She rubs Gwendolyn’s flannel nightgown between her fingers. “You don’t have to--but you _do_ \--and it’s just…nice. That’s all.”

Gwendolyn presses her nose to the damp, fragrant crown of Mildred’s head. “My sweetest one,” she says, “of course I don’t _have_ to. I _want_ to take care of you. Every single moment of my life, more than anything in the world.”

Mildred buries her face in Gwendolyn’s chest. She realizes she’s crying again, but these are nice tears, and there aren’t very many of them. She wonders, sometimes, if her love for Gwendolyn is so all-encompassing that it has to spill out of her, just a little. It’s a nice thought. 

Gwendolyn runs her hands through Mildred’s hair, and Mildred all but purrs. “Read a little more?” she asks. “Please?”

“I’d like nothing more,” Gwendolyn says, getting Anne and her reading glasses from her bedside table. She opens the book. “ _Anne revelled in the world of color around her,_ ” Gwendolyn reads. ‘ _Oh, Marilla,’ she exclaimed one Saturday morning, coming dancing in with her arms full of gorgeous boughs, ‘I’m so glad we live in a world where there are Octobers…_ ’”

 _I’m glad to live in a world where there are Octobers, too_ , Mildred thinks as she drifts off. “I’m falling asleep,” she mumbles.

Gwendolyn marks her page. She curls herself around Mildred like a protective shell. “Then rest, my love,” she whispers. “I’ll be right here when you wake up.”

**Author's Note:**

> if anyone has requests (sickfic is always my first choice but will do others!) you can send 'em to my askbox @ anneofgreengaybles.tumblr.com.


End file.
